Caring, Loving, Losing
by Tvroxmysox
Summary: Something could be heard in the silence that filled the space in your apartment, maybe it was an agreement, maybe it was a promise. All you know is that he didn't need a warm welcome or comforting words. He just needed someone.
1. Knowing

**A/N: So this is a little piece I'm working on...slowly. So don't be surprised if it takes ages for the next chapter to come up. For the record, I don't really know where this is going and how it's going to end so...bear with me. There is NO romance, just saying. I don't really do romance. And yes, I am attempting to be deep and perceptive. Please review, and since this is my first ACTUAL fanfic, be honest. Please. **

**Love,**

**Sox**

* * *

On your first day, you expect everything to be the same. You expect everything to be just like LAPD, full of overworked cops, humourless days, black coffee and mountains of paperwork. When you first walked in, you didn't realize you were in for the surprise of a lifetime. You were greeted by 5 tired looking people. They welcomed you, the probie, into their ranks warmly, giving you smiles and handshakes and even a hug. They moved around each other perfectly, seeming totally synchronized. Your first minutes on the job were just a blur of bright colours and loud noises, nobody slowing down enough to give you a chance to actually look at them. So, you follow them, watching as they moved from one scenario to the other, and you try to keep up with their theories.

From the moment you get there, you know perfectly well that this was going to be different, that LAPD was worlds away from this place. The people were overworked, you could see that, but they didn't show it. They worked 20 hour days without even blinking, like they had gotten used to it a long time ago. They were constantly teasing each other, cracking dark jokes and trying to hide from the morbidity of the situation.

You can't think of a time where they weren't on the move, either trying to find a witness or trying to get the bad guy. After a while, you realize they were in constant motion for a reason, you come to notice that they never look in anyone's eyes, and they never linger long enough to for their carefully constructed masks to slip away.

Sometimes you wonder how they do it, how they live in a world so full of well kept secrets and carefully worded half-truths. You wonder if they ever get tired of trying to figure out who they can trust, if they ever get tired of trying to figure out which version of themselves they actually were. Most of all, you just sit there and wonder whether or not you'll ever be able to be like them. You live in a different world. While theirs is full of lies, gunshots and fake identities, yours consists of black coffee, faded photographs and internal battles. You believe in excuses and they believe in reasons.

You slowly come to realize that you have been dragged into a world of bullets and shootouts. Of loving and losing and trying to forget and move on. You can tell that you are in a room full of weary people with tired eyes and heavy spirits. People who have seen too much, loved too much and lost too much. Maybe they were all a little sick of getting up every morning just to go home that night with the sound of gunshots still ringing in their ears. Maybe they were all a little tired of being the heroes.

Most people went home every night to a house full of people they love and memories they cherish. You don't, you don't think any of them do either. You go home that first night to an empty apartment full of half unpacked boxes and a cold mattress. That was the first night he came to find you.

He knocks on your door at around midnight, and you open it to find him standing there. His eyes flicker across your face, searching for some sort of reaction to his appearance. You just step aside. Something could be heard in the silence that filled the space in your apartment, maybe it was an agreement, maybe it was a promise. All you know is that he didn't need a warm welcome or comforting words. He just needed someone. So you point out the bathroom and you get him some sheets for the couch.

And by the morning, he was gone.


	2. Caring

**A/N: So never mind the slowly part. I just realized I have a LOT of free time now that it's summer. This chapter is a lot longer than chapter 1...well, I think it is. Remember to press that little review button at the bottom! You know you want to :).**

**Love,**

**Sox**

* * *

There was a time in your life when you wanted to be a cop. When you wanted to be a hero and to put the bad guys away. Well, it turns out that being a hero isn't all they make it out to be. They told you on your first day in LAPD that no training in the world can prepare you for what you're going to see on the job. It took you a while to actually see the truth in that statement.

You realize that training rarely matters in the real world. That nothing can prepare you for real life. There's nothing that can stop you from caring and loving and hurting no matter how much you wish there was. Training just taught you how to shoot and tackle and drive really fast. You learn the rest the hard way. You find that they never told you about that feeling you get when you walk into a crime scene. They never seemed to mention the cold, lonely nights and the dead, accusing stares of people you just couldn't save. And you wonder why they don't mention the worst parts of the job during training.

By the time you get to work in the morning, no one was in the bullpen. Hetty informed you in her old, wise voice that they were upstairs, getting briefed. For some strange reason, you hesitate before you stride into that room you saw yesterday. The one with the big screens and fancy computers they use to find information and watch grisly surveillance videos. They barely look up when you enter and you can't help but wonder if they even noticed. Maybe they were all so caught up in their mission that nothing matters anymore. Nothing except who they would be today and how they would survive. And for some strange reason, you find yourself worrying about that, too.

The day passes in a blur of bright sunshine, quiet speculations and unexpected discoveries. You stay in the office today while the others go out and risk their lives. You barely know these people, but you find yourself willing them to come back. All of them. You realize that this job is harder than you imagined. You were never detached or capable of moving on and letting go just like that. You were never able to just say goodbye and walk away from what was left of the people you know. It's not easy to sit and wait for someone who may or may not come back. And it's even harder to just let them go out and face the guns without you.

You sit quietly at your desk, listening to the keyboard's steady rhythm as he typed up the days events and expenses to give to Hetty. You had heard all about it. Fired 6 rounds in pursuit of a suspect. Purely self defence, the guy was shooting, too. So the prime suspect is dead and no, this couldn't have been avoided. You ask Nate if this was what it was like every day and, before he can hide it, you see a glimmer of sorrow in his eyes as he nods.

So you walk out of the office, saying goodbye to no one in particular and wondering if you'll see them again tomorrow.

He comes again tonight. You open the door and you see him standing there, looking lost and tired. Just like last night, you step aside and he comes in. Silently, he settles on the couch and you find that there was no need for any words or comforting actions so you just leave him be. You lie awake for a long while that night. Thinking about everything yet nothing in particular.

You wake up with a gasp and open your eyes to the suffocating darkness. It takes a moment for you to calm your pounding heart and to figure out where you are. You let the tears slip down your face as the nightmares fade a little too slowly from your mind.

Stumbling through the dark, you make your way to the kitchen. A flicker of movement makes you look up from the sink and you see him sitting on your couch, staring into nothingness. The dim light streaming from your window illuminated his shaking frame and you aren't sure whether you should stay or go. You know that this job is hard, that the gunshots and the explosions, the victims and the suspects never really fade from your memories. You know that he's hurting. More than he will ever let show. You hope that maybe, someday, he'll make peace with the world and with himself. Maybe, just maybe, he'll find happiness after a life filled with sorrow when all is said and done.

On some unexplainable impulse, you cross the room and lower yourself onto the couch next to a hurting stranger. His face is damp with the tears he so rarely sheds and his hands are clenched at his sides. His shoulders are shaking with the silent sobs of a man who was too broken to make any noise. The man that used to seem so calm and collected was falling to pieces right in front of you.

You don't know how much times has passed since you sat down with him. You have no idea who he really was or who you really were. All you know is that your heart

is beating and so is his. And you don't want to care about anything else right now.

You can't really imagine the world he lives in. The one where identities weren't important and you just have to forget about the people who left and didn't come back. A world where there was no such thing as innocent and everyone's just waiting for Karma to come and make up for all the people they've hurt. Where everyone is fighting their own battles and no one is ever going to win. Where running away is not a choice. Never. No matter what.

So you just slip your fingers between his and wait for them to loosen. You sit with him and wait and sometimes you feel the tears flow down your own cheeks. For you thought you had seen it all, done it all and this man comes along and you know he has seen things that you can't even imagine. You know that he has been sent into unfamiliar countries with faceless people to complete meaningless missions. That identities don't matter to him, and names are only temporary. And you don't know what to do or what to say to someone like that. Because you could never, ever understand his life.

So you just sit and you wait until his breathing grows deep and calm. And you don't really know when you fell asleep next to him but when you opened your eyes again that morning, he was already gone.


	3. Hoping and Praying

**A/N: So, now that I have a lot more free time (summer! finally!) I guess I'll be updating a lot more. I wrote this chapter at, like, 2 in the morning, so I know it's not that great. It's a little filler-ish, I just needed to fill in the time between Kensi's arrival to NCIS and now. So...enjoy! And review!**

**Love,**

**Sox**

* * *

The days pass. Some slowly, some quickly, but all filled with gunshots, lies, new passports under new names, and nightmares. So many nightmares. Days turn into weeks and weeks drag out into months. And you slowly lose count of the months you spend here in this place.

The two of you form some type of silent agreement. Or was it a ritual? You don't know what it was or what you should call it. It was a chain of small events, small gestures, that added up to everything. Yet nothing at all.

And every moment when it was just the two of you has come down to three things. Wordless reassurances, tearful silences and waking up to find him gone. And for some reason, you wouldn't change a thing about it.

Time passes. Clocks go round and round and the sun rises each morning and sets every night. Sometimes, your heart clenches with fear that maybe, one of you won't see another sunrise. And you breathe a sigh of relief when you see everyone at their desks when you go into work every morning.

But it's an unwritten law that, one day, something will break the pattern.

Callen get's shot. When Sam calls you from the hospital, you can barely breath. _Critical condition…5 shots to the chest…lost blood…chances aren't good… _A couple phrases were able to get past the haze of panic that settles around you, repeating over and over again in your muddled brain.

You end up in the hospital with Sam and the rest of the team and you find that, for the first time in 20 years, you're praying. Sending desperate pleas to a God that may or may not exist to please, please give him a chance. Because deep down, underneath every passport and every new name, was a good man. One who had people who need him to be okay.

So you wait and you wait and you wait. The whole team sits in the uncomfortable little chairs and wait with you. And you can tell that they've done this too many times already.

He comes back 5 months later, with 5 new bullet holes, 5 new scars and 5 new reasons to walk away. But he doesn't. Because he can't. Because he's in way too deep to ever get out. Because the job, the search for answers, was all he had. So you give him a smile and a hug on his first day back and you walk away before he can see the tears in your eyes.

A kid called Dom joins the team one sunny afternoon. He stared at all of you with wide-eyed wonder and reminds you so much of yourself on your first day. And you realize that he see's you as part of the team of tired looking, fast moving agents that have been here for a while. Suddenly, you see that you had become one of them. Someone you didn't think you would ever become.

You don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

The kid starts getting good at his job. He's fast, smart and manipulative and lively. But after a few weeks, you start noticing the dark circles that form around his eyes. And you can tell that the nightmares had come for him too. The dreams that capture every fear, every heart-stopping moment when you're scared you got there too late. And every heart-wrenching moment when you DO get there too late.

You can tell that the nightmares haunt everyone. That everyone wakes up some nights, drenched in cold sweat, trying so hard to see past the horrors that are always still at the forefront of their minds when they wake.

And you hope that, as time passes, he won't have to drop out anyone's life anymore. That one day, he'll never have to look over his shoulder as he walks down the street or take yet another identity. You hope that, someday, they won't wake up in the middle of the night, with the bullets and the blood fading from their vision. You hope that they'll find peace somewhere down the line.

But maybe you're all a little scared of what's going to happen when your hands stop shaking and the nightmares go away.


	4. Loving

**A/N: So this is chapter 4. I don't really have anything to say about it but the end may be a little weirdly phrased and laid out. I didn't really have time to edit. Anyway, before I forget here's the disclaimer:**

**None of the characters are mine. The show is not mine. The show belongs to CBS. The plot of this particular story is mine. But some parts aren't...we all catch the drift, right?**

**Anyway, enjoy!**

**And review!**

**And please don't be too harsh, but be honest!**

**Love,**

**Sox**

* * *

_Why love if losing hurts so much? We love to know that we are not alone._

_-C.S Lewis_

You find that you're lonely the nights he doesn't come. And your heart breaks the nights he does. And everything, everything comes down to midnight visits and a worn out couch that you both know was permanently his.

The years go by and you…you change. Just like everyone else. You can feel yourself becoming part of the job. And the job becoming part of you. Just like they all were. You finally feel like you belong in this team, that you're one of them now.

You just never expected belonging to hurt so much.

Because there are warnings you don't listen to and people you care about too much. There are decisions you have to make that you don't like and sleepless nights when you are too scared to close your eyes.

You learn to adapt. You learn to check over your shoulder every once in a while just to make sure no one was following you. And you learn to keep any emotions you have in check. Because in this world, emotions are the difference between life and death.

You are perfectly aware that people change and time is ruthless. So you figure out how to forget about the past and you figure out how to stop caring about the people in it. And you learn to do whatever it is that makes it worth it in the end.

Because there's no such thing as perfect and there's no such thing as right. And in the end, it all comes to perspective and what didn't get lost in translation.

He always tells you that you can't love anyone. That you can't care and you can't trust anyone. Because the moment you do, you can get hurt.

But you both know that those are empty warnings. That no matter how much it hurts, you have to care. Because these are the people who will lie to you and scare you but they will never, under any circumstances, hurt you. Because they are the only family you have. And you are theirs.

Because people like you and people like them can't risk having real families.

And maybe, at some point, you did love them. Starting at some point. Because, loving was slow, and gradual. And you only realize something's changed when you look back and you don't recognize yourself.

Somehow, they tore down every barrier you put up. Even the ones you didn't know were there.

He lets himself in the night Dom died to find you sitting on the couch. Eyes red, cheeks blotchy, alone. Silently, he lowers himself next to you and you wait for him to say something. But you both know there's nothing anyone can ever say to make it hurt any less. So he just slips his hand into yours and sits in silence.

_You don__'t know how much times has passed since you sat down with him. You have no idea who he really was or who you really were. All you know is that your heart is beating and so is his. And you don't want to care about anything else right now._

And you are reminded of the 2nd day he came when your roles were reversed. And he was the one who was falling apart.

But there was a part of you that knows you're not the only one hurting tonight. And maybe you're both seeking a little solace. So you sit there in silence. Just 2 hurting people who had seen too much, loved too much, hurt too much and cared far too much. You could tell that you were both thinking the same thing. The words you had both said one too many times. _It should have been me_.

You can tell that he has lost more than enough people in his lonely life. And, for once, you can actually see that he cares and he loves more that he could ever afford to. He, out of everyone, knows how people can leave in a split second. Leave you with nothing. Not even a goodbye. You can tell that he has lost the will to hope, the will to commit, but he will never, ever lose the will to love.

You steal a couple glances at him every once in a while and you find that you can barely recognize him. You see a lost, angry man who is oh, so tired of caring and losing and hurting. A man who has been on too many cold, dusty floors, trying to stay calm as blood stained his hands. Weighed down by years of unshed tears and unanswered questions.

But he always seems to be there for you. With his blurry past no one dares to ask about and tired eyes that hold countless secrets.

And it was a while until you notice the tears that are streaming down your cheeks again and his cautious eyes that are fixed on your face. And you're just 2 cold, lonely people who's hearts have been broken into too many pieces and have lost the will to put them back together again. 2 people who have lost faith in happy endings.

And all of a sudden, his arms are around you. All of a sudden, your tears have soaked through his shirt and he is whispering words you may or may not understand in your ear. He tells you of dusty warehouses and long nights. Of people he loved and people he abandoned and people he couldn't save.

And you wonder how someone can fit all those stories into one lifetime. And how he can put up with any of it.

He tells you he's scared of loving too much and never finding the answers he's looking for.

You tell him that the people you love and the answers you seek are the only things worth fighting for.

You both know how to drop out of lives all too well. And you both know how easy it is for people to drop out of yours. But there was something in his words and in the silence that told you he wasn't going anywhere for a while. And you find that you don't feel so alone anymore.

So you listen to the soft sounds of his breathing and there is a part of you that knows he'll be gone by the time you wake up in the morning. But you don't need him to stay. All you need is one person to remind you that you still have something left to lose.

You don't know much about what you're doing. But what you do know is that one day you're going to wake up and realize all the days gone by, all the moments you lost and all the people you never said goodbye to.

* * *

When the sun hit your eyes that morning, you expect to be alone on the couch. But his arm is still tucked around you and your hand is still in his. His breathing is deep and slow and peaceful. And you think it should be a sin to disturb someone who is in peace for the first time in a while.

Because you know that when he wakes, there is no peace for him. And when he opens his eyes this morning, he will find that you're already gone. When he wakes up, he will realize that some people are there. And then they are not. But there is always a bit of them that rests somewhere deep within his soul. The one that was actually his.

And maybe, one day, you'll wake up and realize how much you actually loved him.


	5. Acceptance

**A/N: Sorry for the delay everyone! Apparently, summer's busier than I thought it was going to be (well, I spent most of the week catching up on sleep so...). This is another kinda-sorta, filler chapter. It's short and quite awkward...I really need to get me a beta. Anyway, disclaimer as usual. Enjoy! And review!**

**Love,**

**Sox**

* * *

He once told you that Sam and himself have been together longer than most married couples in L.A. And in this statement, you hear the sad acceptance that, one day, he'll have to slip silently from Sam's life. Because that was the world he lives in. The one where people are there. And all of a sudden they're not. Where it's so easy to turn around for a second and find that everything is gone.

_You can__'t really imagine the world he lives in. The one where identities weren't important and you just have to forget about the people who left and didn't come back. _

And there are moments when you are scared he is not coming back. Moments when you see that quiet desperation in his eyes that no one else can recognize. And you know that he might not return.

In the seconds right before the bullets start flying, your finger loosens a little on the trigger and you glance at him just to make sure he's still there. Because you never know when he will disappear. And the haunted look in his eyes makes you fear that it will be any day now.

But somewhere deep down, you know all too well that he will never, ever be able to get up and walk away.

_Because he's in way too deep to ever get out. Because the job, the search for answers, was all he had._

* * *

You know he hate pineapples on his pizza and that he has never gotten the flu. And he know you haven't eaten pancakes for 15 years and that you're favourite show is Survivor. And you wonder how 2 people can be so different. Yet so very much the same.

Because in the quiet moments between identities and assignments, you can tell he is so full of simple things and so full of regrets. You are both filled with memories of late night visits from the scary policemen. Both filled with thoughts of a life far away that may or may not exist. And maybe, someday, it will be yours.

You don't believe in running from something that will never be left behind.

And he doesn't believe in home. For home is just another 4 letter word he will never understand.

There's a part of you that knows you're both damaged. There's another part that has accepted it. And another part that has realized neither of you can -or need to- be fixed.

And it was in the fading light of another dying day when you realized what you got yourself into.

You watched a woman cry about how she just wanted to protect her brother while you arrested her for murdering him. And you couldn't stop thinking about how good intentions will never, ever make up for all the pain people cause in the process of carrying them out.

He tells you that he likes this job because he is invisible. Because if he can't be seen, he can't be touched. And if he can't be touched, he can't be hurt. And you don't know if he can be in any more pain than he already is.

For you no longer flinch when the bullets whiz past your head. And neither of you remember all the people you've hurt and all the lies you've told.

You never know when everything is going to go spiralling out of control.

And you never know when everything can so terribly wrong.


	6. Losing

A/N**: Hey, sorry for the wait! I don't really have an excuse for that. Anyway, here's the long awaited new chapter. Warning: bad things happen. I am almost done this one and might start working on a new fic soon. Maybe. So...enjoy! And review!**

**Love,**

**Sox**

* * *

It was dark tonight, the stars blotted out by something dark and heavy and humid. The heat settles around you and you feel the little beads of perspiration slipping down the back of your neck.

It was just another dark night, just another mission. Just another inevitable gunfight that will end in ambulances and body bags.

Because that's how they all turned out. Because the team will stop at nothing to get the job done.

So you slip into the warehouse like the ghosts that you have been for a while now. And you move silently down the abandoned halls and up the dark stairwells, guns cocked and fingers twitching on the trigger. Because you never, ever know what's around that next dark corner.

_And you never know when everything can go so terribly wrong._

Because the darkness is closing in on you and the silence seems too loud. And every breath you take sounds like it could be a scream. There are loud, rusty staircases you don't dare to step on and doors that creak when you ease through them. And there's a feeling that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and your breath catch in your chest. A feeling that makes you glance at him every few seconds and inch a little closer to his own tensed up body.

And you get this desperate, nagging feeling that some things are out of your control. And some things don't work out the way they should.

But this was just another mission. Just like every other mission in every other dark warehouse on every other hot, balmy night. Busting just another drug trafficker and solving just another case.

You are so sure you are going to find him sitting on your couch at 2AM just like every night. And you are going to lower yourself onto the couch and listen to his breathing for the rest of the night because it's nights like this when you are afraid to close your eyes. And it's the nights like this he realizes it hurts to be alone.

So you shove the feelings to the back of your mind and you focus on his soft breathing and near silent footfalls. And you try oh so hard to keep your finger from squeezing the trigger every time you round another corner.

Because you can never get used to this part. And that desperate ache, that nagging instinct to get out of here, never, ever goes away.

It's hard to tell where they came from, and even harder to tell who started shooting first. All you know is that, suddenly, the loud bangs of gunshots shatter the tense silence.

You react without think and before you realize, you are behind a crate and desperately scanning the dark room for him. You find him crouching beneath a massive steel crate and he is also scanning. Maybe for you, maybe for a clear shot.

You gazes collide for just a second and you spot the hard, cold glint in his eye. There is no warmth, no wisdom, no sorrow. Just emptiness. And it scares you much more than it should.

The bullets just keep whizzing past your head. And you just keep pulling the trigger.

_Aim, fire, follow through. Aim, fire, follow through. _And that's all you can think of right now. _Aim, fire, follow through. _It's all that matters. _Aim, fire, follow through. _

And before you can blink, 4 guys lay dead on the floor, dark, sickly blood oozing from the bullet holes you put in their heads. You don't know who they are or why they are here. Not that it mattered.

Because these people don't have names or faces. They have a temporary autopsy table and a file that gets put away with all the other files of all the other faceless, nameless targets.

There is a bang. And a thud that will sound so sickening when you remember it later on.

_The last guy is still standing. That thud wasn__'t from the last guy's body hitting the ground. That means…_

All of a sudden, your gun is going off and you hear the last guy's body hit the ground like it was supposed to three seconds ago. All of a sudden, you are screaming his name and sprinting across the dusty room.

_Hit the vest. Hit the vest. Had to have hit the vest. Had to, had to, had to have hit the vest._

You don't remember pulling your cellphone out and screaming for an ambulance. You don't remember hearing Sam yelling for you somewhere down those dark, echo-y halls. You don't remember tearing his shirt off to find the sticky, red liquid oozing from his chest. You don't remember anything.

You are still screaming at him. Screaming at him to hold on. Please, please fight. To keep his eyes open. Don't, please, don't do this. Please hold on…

His breath catches as you press your jacket against his chest and he hisses quietly. He is looking up at you with dark, sad eyes. There is something akin to acceptance in his gaze. Like he was expecting this to happen for a long time. A cold, weak hand brushes yours. Tries to push it away and you shake your head furiously.

_No, no, no. This can__'t be happening. Please, please don't leave me. Please stay. Don't do this. FIGHT! You can't go. Can't. You can't leave me here. Please don't leave me alone_

…

_I need you._


	7. Leaving

**A/N: Hey guys, I know, it's been, like, 3 weeks. I have no excuses and will graciously accept any angry messages/reviews you throw at me. I deserve them. I am a terrible updater.**

**So, I didn't really know what to do with this story after the last chapter. And I've finally decided on something. It's a little rough. I wrote most of this at 3AM.**

**Anyway, Enjoy! And review! Please?**

**Love,**

**Sox**

* * *

You don't look up as Sam bursts into the room. You hear him gasp and swear quietly under his breath. You hear his footsteps approach from behind you and you duck your head even more, afraid that he might recognize that look on your face. He swears again, louder this time, when he kneels down beside you. Sam's breath is warm on your cheek and you want to believe it's his. You want to believe that he's still breathing. Still smiling and moving and oh, so obviously alive.

Sam is yelling. And his hands are grabbing at your shoulders. And fumbling with your bloodstained jacket, tying it around his chest. You don't know if Sam is addressing you or him or whoever else is in the room. But his tone is angry. And his words are fierce. You try to tell him to stop. That it's over and there's nothing he can do. But there is something that is stopping the words. Killing them off before they reach your lips.

And it get's to a point where you can't take it anymore. All of a sudden, you are halfway to the door, paying no attention to Sam or whoever is calling out for you. Your eyes sting as you burst into the open air. For some reason, it's cold. So cold. A biting chill that works it's way deeper and deeper and deeper. Until you are frozen, inside and out.

You suck in a deep breath of cold air and a terrible cliché runs through your head. _…so do it now, before your chances run out._ And you find that there is truth in the saying. It's not like you're ever getting another chance to tell him who he is to you. That he is- was -more than just a colleague, more than another familiar face or another broken soul. He was part of your broken soul. A missing piece that you have been seeking. And now he is nothing at all. And that piece is lost. And so are you.

For the first time in a long time, you find yourself wishing upon a shooting star that streaks across the night sky in all it's brilliance. And all it's loneliness.

Your breath is coming up in short, shallow gasps and you're finding it harder and harder to stand still. Some sort of energy, some restlessness, is coursing through your veins, making you want to run, run, run.

So that's what you do. You take off into the darkness. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, it will swallow you up, make you forget…make you disappear. Maybe, if you run far enough, fast enough, you can outrun reality. Outrun everything that had happened and everything that you know is going to happen. You focus on the sounds of your own rapid footfalls, ignoring the tears that burn paths down your cheeks. And for one glorious moment, with the cold wind slapping at your face and the hot tears flowing down your cheeks, there were no gunshots. There was no blood and no ambulances or body bags. And, for one second, he was still here.

Maybe, if you just keep running, the what-ifs will die away and you flashbacks will stop haunting you. Maybe, running will make it hurt less. So you sprint through the dark city, not daring to look back.

* * *

The week after was cold. And silent. Something dark and heavy hung in the air, a question no one is ready to answer. _What do we do now?_ You find it hard to believe that such a simple question can make everything so complicated.

The team isn't the same. Well, you all try to be. Everyone tries to go on as if nothing happened but you can't mistake the scabs forming on Sam's knuckles or the shock in Hetty's eyes. There are bags under Eric's eyes and half faded stamps on the back of Nate's hand. None of you can deny that everything had changed. That nothing will ever, ever be the way it once was.

No one wants to go to the funeral. You've already been to several of his funerals. His alias' funerals, that is. And there's a part of you that will never, ever accept that this is the last of his funerals you will ever go to.

There are a lot more people than you expected. The FBI, CIA, NCIS and even a couple people from KGB show up. They all stare at your team like you're all broken. Like you're all going to fall apart any second now. And there's a part of you that wants to. You guess you are just tired of always being expected to let go, move on and pretend you're okay. But that's what they train you for. Not that they ever told you it wouldn't hurt.

Gentle hands are on your hands, your back, your hair. Soft voices are whispering condolences into your ear. They all come up to you to tell you that he died a hero. That he died the way he was meant to die.

As if that changes anything.

He is still dead. And you are still going to have to go home to face the fact that he isn't coming tonight. There is still going to be a gaping hole where he once was on the team that will never be filled. And no words, no consolation is going to make it any easier to accept. People are brushing past you, smiling sadly at your team or stopping to get a word in. You stand perfectly still, smiling diplomatically when needed and accepting every word of comfort graciously. So this is what lonely feels like.

The service is beautiful. You're sure the eulogy is also perfect, but you aren't listening.

"_Kens…" He whispers against your cheek. His breath is soft and warm on your skin and you can't help but close your eyes._

"_Hmmm?" You do not want to move. You do not want to fight your way through the many layers of sleep to face another lonely day._

"_Kens…" He breathes again. And you concentrate on the sunshine warming your back._

"_What?" You groan, slugging him lightly in the arm._

"_I need to go…" His voice trails off and he shifts slightly underneath you. His voice is soft gentle._

"_Oh," And with that, you are on your feet and heading off to the bathroom, leaving him on your sofa. You know that, by the time you get back, he will be gone._

_But there's always a part of you that wishes he won't be._

"I need to go," you manage to tell Sam in a strangled whisper. He glances at you but you do not meet his gaze, fearing the look in his eye. Without waiting for his reaction, you are on your feet and halfway out the doors.

You do not stop when you are outside. You do not stop when you are a mile away. 2 miles. 3 miles. You need to move, move, move. No destination, no target. Just walk. Get away. As far away as possible from…him.

You find yourself standing in the middle of the bullpen. You don't know why you're here, or what you would find. But here you are. And there's something about this place that seems…off. And for some reason, it's no longer home.

_Dear Hetty,_

_I remember my first day here at NCIS. That day changed my life. But, my life has changed again, and I have to adjust to that change. And maybe, that means I need to leave. I don't know for how long. I don't know if I'm coming back at all. I can't stay here, Hetty. Too much has happened and I don't know if I can handle it. _

_Tell the team I'm sorry. And that I will never, ever forget them. Tell them I love them. And you. Thank you. For everything._

_Kensi._


	8. Searching

**A/N: I'm soo unbelievably sorry! No excuses, I am a terrible person for leaving this for, like, 2 months. You all have full rights to hate me and send me angry hate mail. Anyway, this chapter is more on reflection. I guess. I don't really know. What I do know is that it's midnight, and i just finished. And I was like, "Must...finish...the...chapter..." So, the bags under my eyes tomorrow are for you guys! And thank you, thank you, thank you all for the great reviews! They really makes someone's day! Enjoy!**

**And review!**

**Love, **

**Sox**

* * *

You need to move, move, move. Maybe you need to run. Do something, anything. Get somewhere, anywhere but here. Anywhere but this damn, dark room.

He is buttoning up his shirt and you are pulling on your shoes. He does not meet your eye and you are perfectly fine with that. You do not want to remember him. You do not want to recognize the look in his eyes that is surely reflected in yours. It doesn't matter who he is. You are both lost. Both searching. Both running.

And lost souls will always find each other somewhere down the line.

His face disappears among the endless blur of faces and bodies you have encountered. Forgotten. Ignored.

And time passes in dusty, gray buildings and strong, pounding beats. In faces you'll never recognize again and cold, white winters. You can't help but think of LA. Of warm sunshine and lonely hearts. You can't help but think of him. Him. Him. Him.

_Bang. Bang. Bang. _Bullets whiz past your head. This time, you flinch. This time, your stomach turns when you hear bodies hitting the ground. Then you are running and sweating and gasping for breath. And you don't know why you are trying to get closer. Or are you trying to get away? Blood roars in your ears and a heart pounds in you chest as some sick reminder that you are alive, and they, most probably, are not.

Darkness creeps into the corners of your vision, and you are drowning. They are all dead. And you are alive. You, with all your cracks and bruises, scars and burns. With your pounding heart that should have stopped beating a long time ago. You. Damaged you, whom no one seems to be able to fix.

And you continue living. Breathing. Thinking. Going on first dates to remember a little of what it was like back in the sun. And the cracks are hidden under an carefully constructed exterior. You laugh and flirt and kiss them like anyone else, and when they come looking for a second date, you're already gone.

Because pretenses can only last so long. And masks eventually slip to reveal the ugly truth.

Sometimes, you're angry. At him, at yourself, at a world so capable of hurt. And all you want to do is hit something and watch as it shatters into a million pieces right before your eyes. You want to hurt the world, to give it a little taste of how it made you feel. And you want to watch it fall down, down, down.

Sometimes, you jerk awake in someone else' bed, a scream dying in your throat. They are always staring at you the same way. Alarm, worry, fear. You smile, reassuring them that it was only a nightmare. But it's always so much more.

It's memories. It is real. And it is a nightmare you cannot wake up from. You find that you are praying for a normal dream, one you can forget the moment you open your eyes. For memories don't go away when you wake up. The people you have walked away from don't just forget when you disappear. And what-ifs don't just fade into the vast night sky.

And these are the consequences of your past, aren't they? Bad dreams that become reality, and memories you wish would fade into nothingness, but at the same time, you don't. Because when the memories fade, it's not real anymore. And when your past isn't real anymore, neither are you. For you are your past, and it is you. And no matter how far you run, you will never outrun yourself.

Winter comes cold and grey again. The hopes and thoughts of a warm spring are meek, and misery settles over the city. Your heart is drawn to places far away. Homes you used to have that seem oh, so long ago. Where winters aren't bitter or cold and the sun always shone from that perfect sky.

Is this what it had come to? Is this where the story ends? In the traces of a hope that he will quietly slip from your mind? In bitter memories that seemed so sweet when you were living in them. Is this how you're going to go on? With those long stretches of highway as your home? And cold, lonely nights when monsters are real. And ghosts aren't just stories to scare kids. You are clinging to what's left of him with all you have left. Yet wanting to leave him behind with everything else you ran from.

And you are terrified to discover that, one day, everyone will have forgot about their pasts, everyone but you. Because you had learned to walk away from everything that had hurt you, and you had learned to move on. But you had never, ever learned to let go. There's a part of you that's just tired of picking up, moving on and pretending you're okay.

You know that someday, you are going to have to wake up and realize all the days gone by, all the moments gone to waste and all the people you never said goodbye to, And maybe you'll realize the parts of your life that are real, and the parts that were just another lie you wanted to be true.

And you've always wondered why it was so hard to walk away from a life that isn't yours.


	9. Never Finding

**A/N: Hi... Remmeber me? I write stories. AND YOU LIKE THEM! This is the last chapter. I admit, I'm horribly rusty from y'know... not writing anything creative or poetic for a year. And not watching TV for a year. But it's done... YAY! I apologize sincerely for the insane and unforgivable delay. And I hope this makes up for it... **

**Enjoy!**

**And don't hesitate to review.**

**Love, Sox**

* * *

You're not used to the heat anymore. The cold New York winters had wiped any trace of warmth from your being. But snow and cold and your entire life seem a million miles away in this blistering sunshine.

You don't know why you're back. Why you're standing here in the middle of the dusty old bullpen with those dusty old desks that no one seems to have touched. Why your whole life seems to be sitting in front of you in the form of an old desk chair. And this was the first time you forgot why you left for snow and cold and refuge in the first place.

_You are laughing again. You are laughing at Sam and absentminded flicking the safety on and off on your gun. You__'re in the command center, listening to Eric describe yet another pointless murder in stunning detail. You are a young agent, sitting in an old desk chair, so sure of what was right and so eager to defend it._

And there is a part of you that misses it. And you know you shouldn't. You know that the life you once lived hurt you, but that seems to hurt less than trying to feel nothing at all. And you miss the dusty LA sunshine and carefully worded half truth that no one dared to ask about. You miss the well kept secrets and the people you had to trust regardless. And the way your stomach lurched when your foot went down hard on the accelerator.

And the friendships forged in fire.

And the bullets that whizzed past your head just to remind you that you were still alive.

Your laughter was frozen by a bullet. And, somehow, there's no more right for you to defend even if you were still willing to defend it. There is only ice and hurt and faded memories of right. There are only the images in your sleep of laughter and Sam and sunshine, and you don't know if you want to see them or not. And friendships forged in fire are lost in just that. Fire and bullets.

Maybe you were foolish to come back. There is nothing for you here, not anymore. There is only an old desk chair and an empty bullpen. Maybe you were foolish when you thought that this building will give you answers. And maybe you were a little foolish to think you can find answers to questions you don't even have.

At first you think it's a ghost. You never thought that after all these years, someone would still be here to know your name.

It must be a ghost.

_I must be going crazy._

But your name is called again, this time with an urgency that you recognized immediately. And, on instinct, you looked towards the command center.

There he was. Shorts and all. The mixture of shock and delight that spread across his face didn't hide the obvious tiredness in his eyes. A look that you knew you also wore and for the first time, didn't care to hide.

You're halfway up the stairs in a matter of seconds and he moves just as quickly. And meeting in the middle is just an awkward blunder that you're both not used to. His smile is almost hesitant when he asks you how you've been.

_Fine. I__'ve been fine._

He was the only one left after 10 years. The rest of the team scattered when they realized that there was no more "team" anymore. Sam was back with the SEALS, Nate had started a private practice and Deeks went back to LAPD.

"_What about Hetty?"_

"_She's dead."_

And you aren't surprised. You can tell that Eric is searching you for some sort of reaction and you know that he isn't going to find one. He never did. No one ever found the reactions they were looking for around you, and it's only Eric that's used to it. And maybe that's why you came back, just to find someone who's used to it.

You both pretend you don't see the look in each other's eyes. Or hear the hopelessness creeping into each other's words. And maybe you won't notice how much your lives have changed.

And it's a little hard to believe that you are a different person now. He looks at you like he did all those years ago, and you almost convince yourself that he is still part of your team. You almost convince yourself, just for a second, that the team is still there. That they're still sitting in those dusty chairs with hard eyes and well rehearsed smiles. But you know that Eric did not recognize the person sitting in front of him, and you are just another heart that was broken by bullets and lies. And it's impossible to pretend that you're not.

And you walk away quickly, with just a hasty goodbye. You walk away from those dusty desk chairs and those eyes that recognize you. Eyes that know you. Eyes from another life that just seems all too real.

You are far away again. Farther than you have ever been, but still not as far as your were that first day all those years ago. That first day when you were young enough to believe in right and wrong and foolish enough to not recognize the world you walked into. You will never be as far away from that place as you were on your first day. When you didn't know what it meant to be broken.

And you are not sure if you are broken. You just know that you are not whole. You are nothing except dark eyes and quiet sobs. And pasts that seem all too real and all too long ago. And part of you wants the dusty chairs and hardened eyes back. Another part wants to believe that the remainders of a team that used to be are still somehow a team.

But you know that faces you used to know so well are all unfamiliar now, and the team that used to be did not exist anymore. And all you know is that they are now strangers on the street. Old, weary people who do not talk about their life 10 years ago.

And you never thought that walking away from a life that might have been (and never looking back) would hurt more than living one that you lost so much to.


End file.
